


nicotine

by Orestes (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, M/M, Modern Era, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Orestes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so the lawyer bummed a cigarette from the copy-machine boy.<br/>“What a stupid lawyer,” said Grantaire, stubbing his cigarette out against the wall.<br/>Enjolras rolled his eyes, dropped his own cigarette on the floor and snubbed it out with the heel of his shoe. “What a cynical, narcissistic copy-machine boy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	nicotine

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to my girl [becca](http://archiveofourown.org/users/justintimberlake) for giving this a read over before i posted it!  
> EDIT: also thanks to [chaosinpajamas](http://chaosinpajamas.tumblr.com/post/73091483280/smoking-in-the-office-an-e-r-fanmix-inspired) for the amazing mix she made inspired by this fic!

His case falls through on a freezing cold January morning. Enjolras receives the news just an hour after he gets to the office. Cosette’s voice sounds a touch too kind and too apologetic over the phone. Despite the overwhelming amount of evidence in their favour, she tells him, the jury found his client guilty. “I’m sorry, Enjolras. I know you put everything you had into winning this.” 

“It’s fine,” he says shortly. “Thank you for letting me know.”

He sets the receiver down before she has a chance to reply, buries his head in his hands. Eleven fucking months of his life wasted. Eleven months of compiling evidence, files and files of it, and the jury didn’t even take it into account. If they had, he wouldn’t have lost the fucking case.

The door to his office opens. Someone comes in. He doesn’t bother to look up at them.

“Cosette just told me what happened.” Courfeyrac walks over to the desk and gives Enjolras’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “I’m sorry you lost the case. We all are.”

Right now, Enjolras really doesn’t need the pity party. He pushes his chair back and stands up. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks. I’m going to take a break.”

He leaves Courfeyrac hovering uncertainly in his office. For once he looks lost, like he has no idea what to do with himself. Enjolras would feel guilty, but right now he needs to get some air. It’s too crowded by the elevator so he takes the stairs. The roof is only two flights of stairs away and it’s more likely to be quiet there than it is fifteen floors down, out on the street.

It’s bone-rackingly cold outside. Enjolras draws his thin suit jacket tight around his shoulders. His thick winter jacket is still on the back of the chair in his office, along with his hat, scarf and gloves. Maybe he should text Combeferre and ask him to bring them up. But then he’d have to deal with more condolence speeches about the case. He’s not ready to hear more of those yet.

“Why the sour face?” someone calls over to him. Enjolras startles in surprise. A young man is sitting up there on the roof, back pressed against the brick wall between safety and oblivion on the street below. He has a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He’s smirking lazily at Enjolras around it. “You’re far too young and pretty to frown like that.”

“It’s been a long day,” says Enjolras automatically. He’s too proficient in the arts of etiquette and small talk to ignore a direct question like that, even if it does come from a man who looks like he’s run away from a biker convention.

The stranger snorts. “It’s only 9:15 in the morning.”

Enjolras makes a face at him. “Don’t remind me.”

“Aww, snookums. Did our big corporate bosses tread on your toes or something?”

“Not quite,” says Enjolras with a sigh. “Things just aren’t going according to plan.”

The man rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that happens sometimes. It’s part of this thing called _life_.” His tone doesn’t carry a single iota of sympathy; he just sounds unimpressed. “So, you just gonna stand there sulking or do you want a smoke?”

He produces a battered Marlboro box from a pocket on the inside of his leather jacket, holds it face-up so Enjolras can clearly see the large ‘Smoking Kills’ sign printed across the bottom of it. Enjolras hasn’t smoked for months. He doesn’t do it often. Not unless he’s stressed out, or drunk. But he supposes that today he qualifies as the former so he shrugs and says, “Sure.”

Enjolras seats himself down against the wall beside the other guy. Takes the cigarette that’s offered to him. Waits while the stranger lights it and then presses it between his lips. He breathes it in. The smoke fills his lungs, curling pleasantly through his body, leaving a trail of warmth behind. He smiles, tilts his head back and exhales around it.

“Damn,” says the stranger, eyes fixed on the curl of smoke that’s slipping out through Enjolras’s parted lips. “You look so square I was half expecting you to choke on it.”

Enjolras laughs. “I’m not square,” he says, taking another drag. “I’m Enjolras.”

“Is Enjolras your name or some new, hipster way of saying nerd?”

“It’s my name, jackass,” says Enjolras, rolling his eyes.

The man grins lopsidedly at him. “Interesting name. It’s very polysyllabic. I’m Grantaire.”

“Yours is only one syllable shorter than mine,” Enjolras points out, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I didn’t claim otherwise,” says Grantaire, shrugging.

“Whatever.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, leans his head against the wall behind him and smokes the rest of the cigarette. Beside him, Grantaire goes quiet. Every now and then there’s a soft rustle as he turns to the next page of his book. Enjolras cracks one eye open to catch a glimpse of the title: _The Social Contract._ The margins are full of annotations. Most of them are scribbled question marks or emphatically large “NO”s. He sighs. The cigarette in his hand has almost burnt down to the filter. He drops it on the floor beside him and watches it go out.

“Back to work already?” asks Grantaire, turning to face him.

“Yeah.” Enjolras pushes himself up from the floor, dusts down his suit trousers and smoothes down the collar of his blazer. He adjusts his tie so it’s directly on center and ignores the look of amused ridicule in Grantaire’s eyes. “Shouldn’t you be doing something productive, too? I don’t think they let people just sit up here and do nothing.”

Grantaire shrugs. “I’m just here to photocopy stuff. If people can’t find me around, they assume I’m busy and get off their lazy asses long enough to do the work for themselves. I say it motivates them to be less slobbish and provides ample opportunity for them to learn to work independently. I consider that to be my civic duty here in this company.”

“I don’t think that’s how employment works,” says Enjolras, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Well,” says Grantaire. “What the boss doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

Enjolras laughs, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. “I guess that’s true,” he says. “Well, try not to work too hard I guess. Thanks for the smoke and the company.”

“Sure.” Grantaire winks at him. “See you around.”

~ 

Enjolras is up to his elbows in paperwork when Cosette knocks on his office door. He sighs and takes his glasses off so she doesn’t know he forgot to put his contact lenses in (again). Then he calls her in. She’s got a basket full of chocolate and cards in one hand and three bunches of flowers in the other.

“What are those for?” he asks blankly.

She rolls her eyes and dumps everything down on his desk. “Valentine’s day.”

“Oh. Is it February again already?” Enjolras feels his face heat up. “I mean, uh. Listen, Cosette, you’re a lovely girl and everything but—”

“But you’re gay and completely disinterested in the world of romance.” Cosette finishes for him. “I know that, Enjolras. Give me some credit. None of these are from me.”

Enjolras frowns. “Who are they from then?”

“Judging by the number of them, I’d say just about every other employee in the building.”

He rakes a tired hand through his hair and sighs. “You know I can’t accept these.”

Cosette shrugs. “I can’t return them. They’re almost all from anonymous admirers.”

“Great.” Enjolras picks the basket up. It’s surprisingly heavy. “Well, could you give the flower bouquets to Jehan from me? He loves that sort of thing. I’ll find some way deal with the rest of this stuff.”

He takes the elevator down to the ground floor. The lobby is bustling with people. Both of the ladies at the reception desk shoot him hopeful glances, like they think today might just be the day that he notices them but, as usual, Enjolras doesn’t. He strides past them without so much as a glance in their direction, walks through the glass doors and out onto the street.

It’s cold outside, but manageably so. The harshness of this winter is finally fading away. He’s grateful for that. Everything seems so much lonelier during the winter months. He spends Christmas alone, and he celebrates New Year’s Eve alone. Sees in the New Year alone. Every year, he’s alone. Not that he cares or anything.

The soup kitchen around the corner from the office doesn’t open until eight o’ clock in the evening. It’s not even mid-afternoon. Still, Enjolras knocks on the door and calls in through the keyhole: “Bahorel? It’s Enjolras. Let me in, I have something to give you.”

A few moments later Bahorel appears in the doorway. He’s wearing a red-and-white checked apron and a wide smile. “You here to help out today?” he asks. “I thought you usually work on Tuesdays, but—”

“Yeah, I do. I’m just here to drop these off.” Enjolras hands Bahorel the basket. “For Valentine’s day.”

Bahorel snorts. “Are you hitting on me?”

“No. These aren’t for you.” Enjolras smacks Bahorel’s hand away from the basket’s contents. “I want you to give the chocolates to the people who have to eat here tonight, and the cards to people who look like they need a good laugh. Tell them they’re from your miserable friend who is probably going to die alone with seventeen cats.”

“Yes sir.” Bahorel shoots him a mock salute and a smile. “Anything else?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “That’s all for now. Have a nice day.”

He finds himself grinning down at his shoes all the way back to the office. His feet tap jovially against the pavement, following the path they’ve walked a million times before. There’s more spring in his step than usual today. Visiting the soup kitchen always makes him feel a shade lighter. Spending time in places like that, where good people do good things for others, makes him feel like a bit of their goodness and positivity has rubbed off on him.

Bahorel gave up a career in law to open that place. It’s the best decision he ever made.

“See, that expression suits you much better than your scowl does,” someone drawls at him on the street corner. Enjolras stops in his tracks, turning to face whoever spoke to him. He’s leant up against the wall of the E&C Ltd building, casual, with a leather jacket around his shoulders and his legs crossed at the ankle. It takes a moment for the face to register. Blue eyes and wild brown hair. Compellingly sarcastic smirk curved around the base of a half-burnt out cigarette. “I’m supposed to be on a coffee run for the fourth floor right now. What’s your excuse for being out of the pit of hellfire and ruin?”

Enjolras shrugs. Plays it cool. Says, “I had a meeting in town.”

“How boring,” Grantaire says, his lips quirking upwards at each corner. “Got time for a smoke?”

There’s a pile of overdue paperwork on his desk and Cosette will almost definitely maul him during the night if he makes her work overtime again this week. She probably has another date planned with that Marius kid or something, seeing as though it’s Valentine’s Day and all that. He should really get back to work. But when Grantaire offers him the pack he can’t seem to help himself. He slides a cigarette out of the box, holds it out for Grantaire to light and then takes a long, deep drag from it.

“I don’t smoke very often,” says Enjolras, speaking just to fill the silence.

Grantaire tilts his head back, blows his smoke towards the heavens like it’s an act of brilliant defiance. The long line of his throat is exposed. His Adam’s apple bobs as he exhales and Enjolras watches it move in a fixated state until Grantaire lowers his head and looks at him again.

He says, “I’m not surprised.” His eyes drop to the cigarette between Enjolras’s lips, to the sharp jut of his chin, then to the peeking knot of his scarlet tie beneath his winged collar. “Nice tie,” Grantaire continues, tone gently teasing. “Where’d you get it?”

“It was a Christmas present from my best friend two years ago.” Enjolras shrugs. “I like it.”

Grantaire smiles back at him. “I like it too. That shade of red really suits you.” He drops his cigarette butt on the floor and leaves the flame to dwindle out on the pavement. “I guess I should go get those coffees before the caffeine depravity kills someone. Catch you later.”

He waves over his shoulder as he walks away. Moments later he’s swallowed by the crowd and Enjolras is left staring into a crowd of unfamiliar faces, hoping to get a glimpse of curly brown hair. His cigarette burns out in his hand, only half smoked. He drops it beside Grantaire’s and goes back inside.

The ladies at reception smile at him. As ever, Enjolras ignores them. He takes the elevator back up to his office. Wastes half an hour on his computer trying to figure out what Grantaire’s job description actually is. He’s left frowning at the screen, trying to work out why a ‘copy-boy’ would be sent out to get coffee. Then there’s a knock on the door. Enjolras hastily turns off his screen, grabs a random ballpoint pen off his desk and pretends to be engrossed in the paperwork in front of him.

“Come in!” he calls.

Cosette opens the door. There’s a small box in her hand, wrapped in brown paper. She places it down on his desk. “Some guy dropped this in for you.”

“You shouldn’t have accepted it,” says Enjolras with a frown. “I don’t want more people wasting their hard-earned money on me.”

She shrugs. “He seemed pretty insistent you have it. At least open it. If you really don’t want it after that, I’ll give it to Courfeyrac or something.”

“Fine.” Enjolras peels the brown paper back carefully. Inside there’s a box of Marlboro cigarettes with a post-it note stuck to the top of it. It reads, ‘Forgot to say Happy Valentine’s Day earlier. Maybe next time I see you I’ll be the one bumming smokes off you. –R’

Enjolras feels his cheeks heat up. He slides the box into his pocket before Cosette can get a good look at it. “Thank you,” he says, folding the redundant wrapping paper up into tidy quarters so he doesn’t have to meet her questioning gaze. “That will be all.”

~

March is a quiet month. Enjolras finishes two cases in a week, winning both of them. He re-sorts his file system so it’s in alphabetical order instead of date order. Three days into the new system he spends an hour looking for one file from eighteen months ago. He can’t remember the name of his client. Now he’s got to spend the rest of the day sorting the files back into the old system. He sighs.

He’s spinning around and around on his revolving chair when Cosette bursts into the room. She raises an eyebrow at him. Enjolras settles his feet on the ground, halting the chair’s motion.

“Morning, Cosette. Can I help you?”

“I have a new case for you.” She hands a stack of papers across the desk. It’s his ticket out of the dark realm of boredom for the next few days at the very least. Relief courses through his veins as he takes it. “I’ve arranged a meeting between you and the client tomorrow morning at nine. Make sure you read all of that before then, okay?”

Enjolras nods, eyes already skimming the first page. “I’ve got it,” he says. Opens his notebook and writes down the words ‘victim of racial slurs and abuse’ followed by ’57 yr. old male’ and, ‘unfairly dismissed from his job by xenophobic new manager.’ Cosette quietly slips back out of the door, leaving him to it.

Six hours later, he’s finished with the file. It’s dark outside. He has twenty pages worth of notes on the case. Enjolras cracks his knuckles, stands up and stretches out his back. Decides to go and get himself a coffee from the vending machine by the elevators. The rest of the fifteenth floor is quiet and deserted. He checks his watch, which informs him it’s about half past eleven at night. When did it get so late?

The coins clink loudly as they slide into the machine. He rests his forhead against it as the coffee spurts sporadically out of the tap and into his cup. It’s the cheap and instant sort, but it serves its purpose. He sips it cautiously and burns his tongue. The pain wakes him up a bit. He drinks a gulp more and the hot sting sinks down his chest, scalding him awake.

Maybe the cold air would wake him just as effectively. He climbs the stairwell up to the roof.

Grantaire is there, sitting under a dull light fixture on the wall with a book, a pen and an unlit cigarette. Enjolras sees him first this time. He watches the look of concentration on his face in the half-light. His lips are turned downward for once, brows knit together as he scribbles angrily into the margins. It looks like he’s muttering something under his breath, but Enjolras is too far away to know for sure.

He walks closer cautiously and clears his throat. “What are you reading?”

Grantaire looks up at him lazily, baby blue eyes peering up through his eyelashes, and smiles. “So you’re still here. Workaholic tendencies?”

“I got a new case this afternoon. Had things to do before tomorrow.”

“And you actually did them? Wow. Such dedication.”

Enjolras laughs, takes a sip of his coffee and then sits down beside Grantaire. “Whatever.” He bumps their shoulders together gently. “You’re here too.”

“Yeah, but I’m just reading.” He closes his book around his finger, which is holding the page, showing Enjolras the title. This time it’s Kant: _Critique of Pure Reason_. “It’s easier to focus on this crap at a higher altitude.”

“Philosophy on a rooftop. That’s pretty—”

“Cliché?”

“I was going to say cute, but I guess cliché works too.” Enjolras grins at him. “So, tell me. Do you ever do the work you’re supposed to?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Sometimes, when I feel like it. You just catch me at bad times.”

“Sure I do.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and then fumbles in his pocket for a lighter and his box of smokes. It’s the pack Grantaire gave him almost a month ago. The box is unopened, and the luminescent post-it note he wrote is still stuck to the top. Before Grantaire spots it, Enjolras peels the note off. He stuffs it in his pocket alongside the plastic packaging from the top of the box. Opening it, he slides out a cigarette and lights it. Then he leans across Grantaire’s torso and lights his too.

“Mm,” says Grantaire. “Thanks.” He puts his pen in his book like a bookmark and closes it, setting it to one side. “So. What’s the big new case about?”

“Racism in the workplace.” Enjolras breathes smoke in. Breathes lethargy out. Couples each drag with a sip of his coffee. “A fifty-something year old man was dismissed without being given any valid reason. Before being fired he was racially abused by his new boss and punched by her assistant at the office New Year’s Eve party.”

“Whoa. That kinda sucks.”

Enjolras nods. “Tell me about it.”

Their shoulders are pressed together, and their knees. Every particle in the atmosphere around them is very calm and very still. Enjolras tilts his head up and stares at the night’s sky. The entire cosmos winks back at him. He blows smoke up to greet it, just like Grantaire did before. Beside him, Grantaire laughs. Says, “I see you’re finally learning a few lessons from the best.” Enjolras scoffs. He continues. “The stars look beautiful when you’re close to them, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras breathes, still looking up. Then Grantaire tilts his head back too. They sit there like that, side by side, heads faced to the sky in comfortable silence for an endlessly long stretch of time.

Enjolras doesn’t notice he’s shivering until Grantaire wraps an arm around his shoulder and whispers a hushed, “I think we need to get you inside.”

His coffee has gone cold beside him. He stands up, leaving his half-full cup behind him. Grantaire gets up too and they hurry back to the stairwell. It’s warmer inside, marginally. “My office has heating,” Enjolras says, leading the way there. He switches the radiator in the corner on and sits with his back to it while Grantaire childishly prods at the potted plant he keeps in one corner.

“Some fancy office you have here,” he says. Enjolras rolls his eyes. Pulls out another smoke and lights it because he can. There isn’t a smoke alarm in the room. Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t comment. He just settles himself in Enjolras’s oversized swivel chair and wheels it over, holding out his hand for another cigarette. Enjolras gives him one and lights it for him. “Thanks,” says Grantaire before wheeling back to the desk.

The radiator warms up against his back as Grantaire shuffles lazily through his papers. “Don’t mess with my system,” he warns half-heartedly. “I need those papers in order tomorrow.”

“I’m not messing with anything,” says Grantaire indignantly. “Just reading through your notes.”

“Okay.” Enjolras closes his eyes and breathes around the cigarette. Gladly embraces the warmth in his chest as it works its way into his lungs.

Then suddenly Grantaire is beside him, waving his notebook in his face. “This doesn’t make sense,” he says. “The guy says he got beaten up outside the office party at New Year, yeah? But here, it says that he was in the cloakroom when he got punched.”

Enjolras sighs. “Cloakrooms are often outside the party,” he said. “Anyway, that’s just semantics. There are witnesses and pictures to prove he got punched.”

“But there are inconsistencies in his story,” says Grantaire, sitting cross-legged beside Enjolras. He has a highlighter in one hand and a pencil in the other. “Look here,” he says, highlighting one word. “It says he didn’t say anything to provoke the other man. But here,” he flicks forward a few pages and underlines a long sentence with the pencil. “He claims that he told the man to back off.”

“Saying back off isn’t provocative,” says Enjolras patiently.

“Right,” replies Grantaire. “But how about here, when he claims that the man used a racial slur before punching him. Both of the witnesses agree, but they pick out different words.”

“Adrenaline messes with people’s memory,” says Enjolras. “Lots of witnesses get their facts mixed up after a fight happens.”

Grantaire taps the pencil against the page. “Fine,” he says. “But have you considered the fact that both of the witnesses were his friends? No cloakroom attendant has come forward to agree with his account.”

“The cloakroom attendant didn’t want to get involved.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire. “But in this account, it was the cloakroom attendant who had to pull the aggressor away from your client. Does that seem like the actions of a man who will not testify to you?”

Enjolras frowns. “People often worry that helping out with cases that don’t directly involve them will incriminate them without reason in the eyes of the law.”

“But without the word of an unbiased witness, all you have here is an inconsistent account.”

“It’s consistent enough to start with,” says Enjolras. He taps the ashes at the end of his cigarette onto the carpet before taking another long drag. All this talk of the case is making his temples throb.

“No it isn’t,” Grantaire says. He taps his excess ash into the crystal ashtray he took from Enjolras’s desk, then moves it to sit between them for the sake of the cream-coloured carpets. “The man you are going to defend in court is almost definitely lying. I would bet any money he wasn’t attacked and fired without reason. Men like him get attacked for sexually harassing people or stealing things. His boss is probably the victim of it. Notice here that his previous manager was a man. As soon as a woman came into the workplace, his productivity levels dropped. ”

“That was due to the racial abuse he was suffering,” argues Enjolras weakly.

“So he claims,” says Grantaire. “But it was his boss’s assistant who punched him, wasn’t it? And she sure waited a long time to fire him for ‘no reason’ if she really dismissed him only for his race. They worked together for nine months. Nine months is a long time to work with someone you hate unquestioningly.”

Enjolras stubs the end of his cigarette out in the ashtray. “If she were being sexually harassed or stolen from, why didn’t she give that as a reason for his dismissal?”

“She’s a young women working in a high position where she has to manage a lot of men. Perhaps she’s worried that they will think of her as someone weak, someone who can’t handle them, if she admits that this guy is getting to her.”

“That reasoning is ridiculous.” Enjolras rubs a tired hand across his face. The case suddenly seems more complex than it did an hour ago. It’s too late at night for him to re-evaluate all his opinions, so he sticks to denying Grantaire’s. “She would have come forward and said it.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Whatever you say. Just do yourself a favour and don’t take this case on until you’ve at least spoken to the cloakroom attendant from the party. You should also talk to other men who work in his office. Ones he isn’t so close with as the witnesses cited. Oh, and you also need to find out whether other ethnically Hispanic workers in his work environment have received similar degrading comments from their manager, or if she has behaved in a xenophobic manner towards anyone else.”

“Okay.” Enjolras nods. He’s too tired to argue further. “I’ll do that after I talk to him tomorrow.”

Pleased with the result, Grantaire smiles and sets the notebook aside as Enjolras lights them both a new cigarette. The conversation turns to idle things. A game of twenty questions followed by several rounds of truth or dare. It’s like being in high school again; weekends spent hiding in Courfeyrac’s garden shed with their friends, rebelling by smoking where their parents couldn’t see.

“Truth or dare?” Grantaire asks him.

Enjolras breathes in the smoke. Pushes it out again. “Truth.”

“So square.” Grantaire shakes his head. “Fine. How many people in this company have you fucked?”

He feels his face heat up. “Two. Truth or dare?”

Grantaire grins at him brilliantly. “Dare.”

“Prank call the night guards downstairs and ask them to order you a pizza.”

They pull the phone off the desk and towards the radiator. The wires don’t quite stretch far enough, so they both end up shuffling forwards to meet it halfway. Right in the middle of the floor. Grantaire picks up the receiver. Enjolras dials the number and puts the call on speakerphone. It ends with more ash on the carpet and the pair of them a giggling mess.

Half an hour later Manuel knocks on the office door. He’s carrying a pizza box. He raises an eyebrow at the pair of them, at the smoke in the room, at the way Grantaire has his head pillowed in Enjolras’s lap, but he doesn’t say anything. Just sets the pizza down on the desk and goes. It’s past four in the morning at this stage. Pizza places don’t usually deliver at this time, but Manuel is a miracle worker. They sit side by side at the radiator, backs burning against it, pizza box and ashtray sat in between them.

They finish the pizza then run out of cigarettes in quick succession. There’s only one left in Enjolras’s box. He hasn’t smoked this much since he left university. “Share it,” says Grantaire, lighting the end and pressing it between Enjolras’s lips. Enjolras takes a drag then passes it back to Grantaire. They swap it back and forth until it’s almost burnt down to the filter.

“You finish it,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire shakes his head. “We can still share.”

He takes the last drag, drops the stub in the ashtray and then leans towards Enjolras. Presses their lips together. Uses his hand to help part Enjolras’s jaw. He blows the smoke forward, straight into Enjolras’s lungs, and their lips only barely touching. Smoke and warmth and something else settle in his chest. He leans into the half-kiss. Tugs Grantaire’s lower lip between his own and sucks on it gently.

For a brief moment, Grantaire kisses him back. Then he pulls away. The smoke, warmth and something else slip out of Enjolras’s chest reluctantly as the distance between them increases again. “I’m tired,” he says. “Should probably go home.”

“No point when you’ll have to come back in two hours,” replies Grantaire. “Better off sleeping here.”

Enjolras has a couch in his office for precisely this purpose. He nods, picks himself up off the floor and drags Grantaire with him to lie down on it. There isn’t enough room for both of them so they end up in a tangle of limbs. Grantaire has one arm curled beneath Enjolras’s shoulders, so Enjolras wraps an arm around his waist. It’s far from comfortable. They’re both asleep within ten minutes.

~

Cosette wakes Enjolras up the next day. It’s morning. The light is streaming in through his blinds and he is curled up on the couch, alone. The leather next to him is still warm where Grantaire’s body had been earlier. There’s a post-it note stuck there next to Enjolras’s face. It reads, ‘Sorry I’m not here anymore. Thought it would be best if I disappeared. Don’t want any of your coworkers getting the wrong idea. –R’

That, the pizza box in the corner of the room, and the ashes on the floor is the only evidence left that last night even happened. And Cosette is standing in his office. She can see it all. “Okay,” she says slowly. “So you’re sleeping with someone from the company again.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m not. I just made a new friend.”

“Right.” Cosette rolls her eyes, obviously unconvinced. “Well, you need to take a shower. Go on, go.” She shoos him off the couch. “The bathroom down the hall is free. I’ll get you a new suit and we’ll move your nine o’ clock to Courfeyrac’s office. This one reeks of smoke.” Her nose wrinkles up briefly. Eyes flicker to the overflowing ashtray by the radiator. “Christ, Enjolras, how many cigarettes did you smoke?”

He shrugs. “About half a pack?”

Cosette rubs an agitated hand across her face and starts muttering under her breath. It looks a lot like she’s counting to ten. “We’ll talk about that later,” she says shortly. “Right now you have just less than an hour to make yourself look presentable before the meeting. Go take a shower.”

The staff bathrooms at the company are nice enough. The water is warm. It rolls down his shoulders, washing away the smell of smoke. He scrubs the bar of soap across his skin and borrows one of the tiny bottles of shampoo that Courfeyrac collects (read: steals) from hotels. It’s refreshing, sure, but a part of him wanted to hold on to last night’s scent for just a little while longer. He doesn’t want to spend today pretending that nothing happened.

He returns to his office wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. That gets him a few wolf-whistles in the corridor. Cosette rolls her eyes at him. “Exhibitionist,” she mutters.

“I didn’t have any clothes in there with me,” he points out.

She gestures to the pile of neatly folded she has left his couch. The fluorescent pink post-it note is right next to the clean pair of boxers; there’s no way in hell she hasn’t seen it. He feels the tips of his ears turn a matching shade of pink as she turns and flounces out of the room.

Enjolras gets dressed quickly. Buttons his shirt to the top. Puts on his tie. Cosette reappears with a hair-dryer about half way through the process and stands there blasting hot air at his head while he fumbles with his cufflinks. It dries his hair messy and wild, almost like Grantaire’s. Then Cosette smoothes some sort of wax through it so it settles in gentle waves around his face instead of frantic corkscrew curls.

“Christ, you scrub up nicely,” comes Grantaire’s voice from the doorway. He’s grinning at Enjolras. His own hair is soaking wet from the roots to the ends, dripping water all over yesterday’s t-shirt.

Cosette raises an eyebrow at him. “Can I help you?”

“Nah. Just stopping by to wish Enjolras luck in the meeting. Let me know how it goes, yeah?” He waits for Enjolras to nod before continuing. “Remember what I said yesterday. Don’t trust this guy blindly just because he threw around the words ‘racial abuse’, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire beams at him then disappears down the hall.

“So that’s your new friend,” says Cosette knowingly.

“Shut up.” Enjolras can feel himself flushing. “The client will be here any minute.”

~

The meeting doesn’t go well. Something about M. Thénardier, disagrees with Enjolras instantly. For one thing, he’s obviously not Hispanic. For another, there are about a thousand holes in his story. Enjolras feels more and more uncomfortable each time the story changes. And their meeting drags on for almost an hour before Enjolras decides he’s had enough. There’s no point in him wasting any more of his time with this man.

“Thank you,” he says bluntly, cutting Thénardier off mid-sentence. “That will be all. My assistant will be in touch with you regarding your case next week.”

Thénardier bows his head. “Monsieur, I thank you for your understanding, and—”

Enjolras leaves Courfeyrac’s office before the man finishes his sentence. “Cosette,” he says. “Please show Monsieur Thénardier the way out.”

Cosette nods once, sharply. Stands up, straightens her skirt and adopts her terrifyingly professional expression that she usually reserves for chauvinist pigs and conservatives. Pride swells up in Enjolras’s chest as he walks past her, heading upstairs to the roof. Grantaire is waiting for him there, legs crossed, back against the wall, book in hand. He looks up as Enjolras approaches and asks, “Well?”

“You were right. The guy is a total creep.”

He sits down next to Grantaire who says, “I hate to say I told you so, but…”

Enjolras swats at his shoulder. Grantaire catches his hand and holds it.

“You’d make a good lawyer, you know. You’re good at figuring people out.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Law isn’t really my thing. I see myself as more of a superspy.”

“Be serious.”

“I am being serious,” says Grantaire. “I’d make a fucking awesome superspy.”

Enjolras gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Yes, honey, I’m sure you would,” he says in a patronizing tone. “But I also think you’d be great at vetting our clients for us.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you offering me a promotion?”

“Well, you hate your job and I figured you might—”

He’s cut off mid-sentence when Grantaire kisses him.

“I’ll do it,” he says, words pressed against the curve of Enjolras’s lips. “I don’t care what it is your stupid corporate ass needs me for. I can do it.”

“Good,” says Enjolras. He curls his free hand in the hair at the top of Grantaire’s neck and drags him that fraction of an inch closer. Holds him there, mouths pressed together. Grantaire’s lips are soft and wet, slightly chapped from the cold and perfect against his. Enjolras runs his tongue along the curve of his lower lip before he pushes in deeper. Grantaire’s tongue is wet, hot and heavy against his. He tastes like ash, peppermint toothpaste and something else—something Enjolras can’t quite put his finger on.

Grantaire hums happily into the kiss before pulling away. He presses his lips to the tip of Enjolras’s nose then rests their foreheads together gently. The smile on his face is big enough to light up the whole of Paris. “Bet you’re glad that case fell through now,” he says. “Otherwise you’d never have met me. You’d be working with Thénardier in your office, trying to help him deal with the trauma of abuse that didn’t ever happen—”

“Okay, I get it, I am an idiot and you are all knowing.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Any chance you’ve got any smokes?”

“I went out for more this morning.” Grantaire pulls a new box of Marlboros out of his pocket and offers one to Enjolras before taking one himself. He lights his with the lighter than leans over Enjolras, lighting his cigarette with the end of his own.

They stay out there together until their cigarettes have burnt down to nothing, hands clasped together, eyes staring out over the city skyline. In the distance, the tops of the buildings fade away into the clouds. It’s the middle of March. Spring is coming. Sixteen stories down from here, out on the street, blossoms are appearing on the trees. They have so much ahead of them. This is just the start.

And so the lawyer bummed a cigarette from the copy-machine boy.

“What a stupid lawyer,” said Grantaire, stubbing his cigarette out against the wall.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, dropped his own cigarette on the floor and snubbed it out with the heel of his shoe. “What a cynical, narcissistic copy-machine boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you have time, please leave feedback of some sort. it fuels the fire. also, feel free to say hi to me on [tumblr](http://dimestorepoet.tumblr.com) some time. i'd love to be friends :--)


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